


Birds of A Feather

by tiigi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Patrick is still crazy but not as crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22317964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Stan knows he is the kind of person to get beat up, and Patrick is the kind of person to do the beating.***Stan and Patrick, ten years apart.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	Birds of A Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Finally some Stan/Patrick! Still on with my rare pair obsession lol

Stan first meets Patrick Hockstetter on his seventh birthday. His family have just moved to town and summer vacation has been stretching on indefinitely. Stan never thought he would look forward to school, but he’s genuinely excited to meet new people his age. After being shut up inside a house with his strictly religious people for almost a month, he’s going a little stir crazy.

It’s Stan’s first journey out on his own. His parents usually take him with them when they run to the store or if they want to go for a walk so he’s explored Derry to the best of his ability already, but it still feels freeing to be able to choose where he goes now. He has a curfew and a wristwatch strapped to his arm that he isn’t allowed to forget about, but other than that he has complete independence.

He quickly heads for the forest, just past what is apparently known as the Kissing Bridge. Stan is excited to see what kind of birds he can spot amongst the canopy of leaves. His father gave him a book all about different kinds of birds with pictures showing what they look like, and his mother gifted him a high quality pair of binoculars. Stan has both now, tucked inside a backpack that’s slung over his shoulders.

He pushes his way through the foliage, wincing as stinging nettles bite at his ankles. He isn’t looking where he’s going and suddenly his foot catches on a bramble on the ground; he tips forward, arms pinwheeling dangerously, and then tumbles head first down the slope.

When Stan finally stops rolling, he takes a few seconds to catch his breath and examine his scrapes and bruises. The skin of his knees and palms is a little grazed, but when he checks his binoculars they don’t seem damaged. He huffs a little sigh of relief, frustrated but pleased to see he hasn’t damaged his new gifts before he’s even had a chance to use them. His parents would never let him out on his own again. 

A sudden, crackling noise to Stan’s right startles him and he turns, heart pounding in his chest. There’s a figure emerging from between the trees, a dark blur at first but slowly getting closer and closer. Stan regains his footing as the tall, lanky frame of Patrick Hockstetter appears in front of him. 

Of course, Stan doesn’t know that it’s Patrick Hockstetter until he introduces himself with a wide, toothy smile that seems more threatening than friendly. Stan takes his outstretched hand. His nails are grimy and deadly sharp, caked dark underneath with what is probably dirt but looks like blood. 

“Hi,” Stan introduces himself, feeling for some reason that it is of the utmost importance for him to befriend Patrick. This is the first time he has met anyone around his own age since he moved, and he can’t have made a good impression, tumbling down the hill with his neatly parted hair and his Boy Scout shorts. Stan knows he is the kind of person to get beat up, and Patrick is the kind of person to do the beating. 

But despite all this, Patrick doesn’t lunge at him as though to attack. Patrick simply smiles wider, squeezes Stan’s hand a little too tight and then lets him go.

“That was a nasty fall,” he says. “You alright? Your hand is bleeding.”

Patrick gives him a funny little wave as though to show him the evidence of his claim. There on Patrick’s palm, spotted red against the deathly white pallor of his skin, are little flecks of Stan’s blood. He looks down at his own hand, dazed, to check for himself. 

“Oh,” he blinks, surprised and vaguely embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

As he stammers our an apology, Patrick brings his hand to his mouth; his tongue snakes out imperceptibly and curls against his palm, tasting Stan’s blood against his own skin. He does this whilst maintaining a blank sort of interested eye contact with Stan, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Stan doesn’t know how to react. The thought of licking his own blood from his dirty hands gives him a queasy, anxious sensation in the pit of his stomach, let alone somebody else’s. Really, he should go home and sanitise all his grazes, put cream on his bruises. He should wash his dirty clothes and scrub himself clean in the shower to make sure there are no tics clinging to him. He should do all of that, but he doesn’t.

Patrick looks older than him, and Stan has always been lead to believe that older equals wiser. If he’s doing it then maybe that’s just what people do in these kinds of situations. Maybe it’s just another example of how Stan is weird, irregular, an outsider. He doesn’t want to be pushed to the sidelines in Derry, not when he’s been gifted with a new chance.

“What are you doing out here, Stanley?” Patrick asks. He has long, dark hair that swishes from side to side when he tilts his head. Stan smiles despite the odd circumstances he has found himself in, eager to talk abo it familiar subjects.

“I’m here to see birds!” Stan exclaims. Patrick’s eyes flash with renewed interest and his lips curl at the corners with the first sign of a genuine, sly smile, like Stan has pleasantly surprised him in some way.

“To see birds, huh? Can’t you do that from your window?” Patrick jokes around. It puts Stan at ease.

“Not the ones I could see from here. Look, I have a whole book about it. I got it for my birthday today!” Stan is teaching around to fumble with the zipper of his backpack before it even occurs to him that Patrick might not want to hear about his stupid bird book or the cool binoculars he got for his birthday. 

Somewhat bashfully, he swivels around again, heels digging into the muddy ground. He faces Patrick with pink cheeks. “Would you like to see?” He asks.

“Sure, Stanny.” Patrick says in response. Then, “Happy birthday.”

***

This is the first of many times Stan sees Patrick that summer. He goes to the forest whenever he can, because he doesn’t know anybody else in town and there are always a few birds hanging around in the upper canopies of leaves.

Patrick never seems too interested in what kind of birds Stan is looking for, but he never gets annoyed at Stan for going on about it like his parents sometimes do. He never says what he’s doing in the forest either, but he doesn’t need to, Stan decides. He and Patrick are friends, and they can enjoy some companionable silence every now and then. It doesn’t mean they have to share everything.

They never arrange to meet. Stan doesn’t know where Patrick lives and Patrick can only assume his own address is equally mysterious to Patrick, but somehow they manage to see each other three times a week at least. Stan isn’t always allowed out, and he when he can go doesn’t always arrive at the same time, but Patrick is always there, hands dirty, face flushed, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

Stan has come to think of Patrick as his best friend - his only friend - and really, that’s what makes Derry bearable. Stan doesn’t know how he would cope if he had to spend the rest of his childhood here all alone, and it’s a relief that he already has a best friend to rely on.

So maybe that’s why it’s such a shock that, when it comes to the first day back at Derry elementary, Patrick completely blanks him.

Stan himself has done better than he thought he would. He doesn’t hate his new teachers, he’s excited about the year ahead and he’s even met someone who promised to introduce Stan to all his friends later. His name is Bill and when he introduced himself, he had a stutter.

This, Stan thinks, makes him uncool. He observes how other people in their class avoid Bill or shoot him nasty looks when he isn’t paying attention. It upsets Stan because Bill has been nothing but nice to him, but there isn’t really anything he can do. 

Maybe he can find Patrick and introduce the two of them, and they can all be friends along with Bill’s group. It’s a nice fantasy and Stan lets himself indulge in it for a little longer, before the bell for lunch rings and he finds himself following Bill into the cafeteria.

There are too many people to keep count of, all talking and laughing and moving around in groups of people. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed as Bill leads Stan on a winding path through the hall towards his table. Then, just before they get there, something catches Stan’s attention out of the corner of his eye.

“Patrick!” He calls out, suddenly excited. He’s spotted his friend lounging against the wall over by the water fountain with a group of three other boys. They’re close enough to hear Stan without any trouble, and he flushes as all four of them look over.

“What are you d-doing?” Bill whispers into his ear, sounding suddenly very panicked, but Stan doesn’t know what he’s worrying about. Maybe with Patrick on their side, people won’t treat Bill so badly–

“What do you want, flamer?” Patrick asks. His voice is low and even; he’s calm, not even a little phased by Stan’s sudden exclamation. Stan frowns, confused and hurt by Patrick’s indifference.

“I thought maybe we could hang out?” He suggests, feeling more and more like an annoying little kid the longer he talks. He swings his head round to check that Bill is still there as though to check for moral support, although he isn’t sure why that suddenly felt so important to him. 

“You think we’d want to hang out with you, freak?” One of the other boys spits at him, and it lands on the floor a few feet away. Stan sees him eyeing the kippah that rests on Stan’s head and he backs away, feeling unnerved. Patrick has never mentioned it before. He’s presumed it hadn’t mattered, that it wouldn’t really matter to anyone, despite the horror stories his father has told. Maybe he was wrong about that as well.

Stan gives Patrick one more pleading look, but it isn’t returned. He feels like an idiot, like all this time Patrick has just been pranking him and now the truth has come out he looks like even more of a fool. His cheeks flame with humiliation.

“Come on,” Bill murmurs into Stan’s ear, tugging gently at his wrist to get him to move. Stan does finally, reluctantly, escaping Patrick’s intense gaze.

He greets Bill’s friends with a cold stone of dread in his stomach, cheeks red, forehead sweating. They all saw him get made fun of and they still want to sit with him which is nice, but he wishes he could go and demand an explanation from Patrick. They’ve been friends for almost a month now– what changed?

After school, Stan doesn’t go to the forest to meet Patrick again. He does this because he’s still embarrassed, and he’s hoping that if Patrick has time to think about the choice he made then maybe he’ll start to regret it. Maybe in school tomorrow he’ll go and apologise to Stan and they can sort the whole thing out. He misses the freeing feeling of bird watching with a silent companion, but it’s for the best, he tells himself.

Only, that doesn’t happen. Patrick doesn’t talk to him the next day, or the next, and before Stan knows it he hasn’t spoken to who he thought was his best friend in over a week. He’s been spending a lot of time with Bill and the others lately and, despite how sometimes he will turn around too quickly and see Patrick staring at him with a powerful gaze, he finds the boy quickly slipping from his mind.

How suddenly things can change, Stan thinks to himself.

***

Stan isn’t sure why he heads out to the forest again on his seventeenth birthday. He hasn’t done any celebrating so far, not with his parents and not even with the Losers, but he hasn’t been to the forest in a long time either. There’s a feeling inside him now, one that grows stronger as he gets closer, that’s telling him that this is where he needs to be right now.

It’s exactly a decade since his first trip here. He remembers his binoculars and his bird book and meeting Patrick Hockstetter for the first time. He remembers the summer they spent together, before Patrick turned out to be a massive, unrelenting douche. He’s still remembering it as he eases his way down the grassy slope into the forest and stumbles across Patrick himself, hunched over on the ground as though he’s examining something very closely.

He should run. He knows that as surely as he knows he shouldn’t hang around near the Barrens alone after dark. If he wants to avoid a beating, Stan needs to turn around and run home as quickly as possible, preferably before Patrick turns around and catches sight of him.

But something makes him stay. Something draws him closer, and he makes it all of three feet forward before the ground underfoot makes a crackling, snapping sound. Patrick freezes; Stan sees the realisation in the tense line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts like a wild animal listening to his surroundings. He turns around slowly, greets Stan with a menacing smile.

“Hey there, flamer.” Patrick says, but it’s not his usual threatening tone of voice. He speaks lazily, easily, like he’s not on the attack right now. Stan swallows, advances slowly.

“Patrick,” Stan greets him cautiously. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

“Haven’t been here in a while.” Patrick shrugs in response. “But I thought today might be a special occasion. Happy birthday, loser.”

Stan blinks, shocked. “I’m surprised you remember that.” He says, taking a few steps closer. Patrick watches him move with close attention.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Patrick doesn’t acknowledge his statement. Stan feels a strange sense of relief, like he’s said something silly and he wants to move past it as soon as possible. “I’m glad you did. I got this for you.”

He holds out his hand and Stan takes a few shuddering steps backwards in fear. He’s half expecting Patrick to pull out a knife and tackle him to the ground, and he reacts based on years of bullying. 

That’s now what happens, though. Instead, Patrick reveals something small and harmless; Stan inhales sharply, pulse racing in his ears. 

“Oh my god,” Stan murmurs, draws closer as though hooked on an invisible wire. He recognises Patrick’s gift instantaneously– he’d never stop talking about it when he was a kid and Patrick was around to listen. It’s a bluejay feather, almost perfect condition. It’s soft as Stan brushes a fingertip over the edge and the colours catch the light filtering in through the trees. It’s beautiful.

“Patrick, this is incredible.” Stan breaths, transfixed. He hasn’t seen a bluejay in years and he’s pretty sure it’s illegal to even have a feather like this, but there’s no way he’s giving it up, even if that means hiding it from his father. “Did you find this around here?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, with that same smirk like he’s hiding something nasty. Stan swallows.

“Well, thank you.” He says, oddly touched. An uncomfortable silence settles over them, nothing like how it used to be back when they were younger. Stan feels a sudden, suffocating nostalgia for back when he could sit here all day with Patrick in total silence and it wouldn’t be awkward.

“I can give you something else, if you want.” Patrick says suddenly, speaking a thought out loud. Stan looks up, flustered, not sure what to make of Patrick’s spontaneous generosity. Should he be suspicious? He shouldn’t be so comfortable around Patrick after everything that’s happened between them in the last few years, that’s for sure. After all, Stan doesn’t really know anything about him.

“What do you mean?” Stan asks, and then, without waiting for an answer, “No, this is lovely. This is more than enough, thank you Patrick.”

Patrick cocks his head to the side, bemused. “You can have both, if you want.” He says, smirking like he’s sharing a joke with himself. It’s enough to put Stan on edge, just a little, but there’s something else as well. Patrick looks… pretty. With his long, dark hair and his red lips, he almost looks like a girl. Stan finds himself blushing at the unprecedented thought.

“It’s something I’ve wanted to give you for a long time.” Patrick continues, stepping closer, into Stan’s personal space. Stan looks down instinctively, eager to avoid eye contact, but Patrick surprises him by reaching out and tilting his head up with two fingers under Stan’s chin.

“Why didn’t you?” He asks, embarrassingly breathless, heart racing in his chest.

“We weren’t exactly talking.” Patrick replies with a smile that’s almost bashful, a ‘what can you do?’ sort of expression.

“Whose fault is that?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, not quite impressed but pleasantly surprised perhaps. Stan flushes, wondering why he feels so proud of himself all of a sudden. Maybe Patrick likes that he’s finally grown claws.

“Mine,” Patrick murmurs. He’s so much taller than Stan that it’s instantly noticeable what he’s doing, why he’s bending his neck so much. Stan can’t believe it at first though, can’t understand why Patrick Hockstetter is pretending like he’s about to kiss Stanley Uris.

And then he presses his mouth against Stan, and Stan thinks, ‘oh, he wasn’t pretending.’ It’s a strange prank, at least.

Stan doesn’t know what to do at first. He’s never really kissed anyone, other than Beverly years ago in a stupid game of spin the bottle, and that wasn’t with tongue so he doesn’t think it counts. Patrick kisses him with tongue; when Stan opens his mouth on instinct to breathe, Patrick’s tongue slips inside, rubs against Stan’s tongue and his gums and the roof of his mouth like Patrick is trying to devour him from the inside out. He tastes surprisingly clean which Stan appreciates, although there’s a definite taste of tobacco that has him wincing as he pulls away.

Then he realises what the fuck just happened, and he freezes.

“What the fuck,” Stan whispers to himself, not a question but a statement. Patrick’s fingers stroke over Stan’s cheek and then tangle in his hair, a subtly possessive gesture that has Stan’s whole body shivering with sudden, unexpected desire. Desire for _Patrick._ What the _fuck?_

“Don’t freak out,” Patrick’s voice is so low that it feels like he’s speaking directly into Stan’s ear. Stan swallows as he feels himself harden, both at the kiss - his first - and the hoarse quality of Patrick’s voice.

“Is this a joke?” Stan asks quickly, angry in his humiliation. His voice is high pitched and breathy like it always is when he’s turned on. “Is Henry here? Are you about to beat me up?”

“Don’t be so paranoid.” Patrick smiles, amused by Stan’s discomfort. He has to admit, it’s a little reassuring to know that not everything has changed: Patrick is still mostly an asshole, he hasn’t wandered into the twilight zone by mistake.

Then he feels Patrick’s hand slipping down his chest to the front of his shorts, and he thinks maybe he spoke to soon. Patrick curls his fingers around the outline of Stan’s cock and strokes it slow and firm through the material. Stan’s whole body jerks forward in surprise and arousal. His hands fly up to grasp at Patrick’s arms for support, short fingernails digging into Patrick’s bicep. 

It’s the first time anyone has ever touched him there, other than himself, and he doesn’t really do that a lot either. It’s an intense feeling, so intense that Stan thinks he might be about to pass out. He can feel the drag of each individual fabric fibre against the sensitive skin of his cock. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything as he pops the button of Stan’s shorts and eases his hand inside. A tear cuts down Stan’s cheek.

“Aw, hey,” Patrick coos. “You’re so hard already. Is this your first time?” He’s being patronising but Stan can’t find it in himself to fight, not with Patrick’s hand slowly jerking his dick. It’s a little rough because there’s no lubricant to ease the glide of skin on skin, but every so often Patrick will use two hands: one to steady Stan’s cock and the other to rub his palm flat over the head of Stan’s dick in tight circles. Precome gathers at the slit in shiny drops. Stan can feel an exquisite pressure building low in his belly and, god, he’s about to come all over Patrick Hockstetter’s fingers.

Then Patrick sinks to his knees in the mud and says, “I could put it in my mouth if you want?”

Stan’s brain isn’t working properly, so he doesn’t fully understand what Patrick says at first. He blinks, head foggy, and says “What?” Patrick doesn’t repeat himself and he doesn’t wait for an answer: he leans forward and licks his tongue over the slit before taking the head of Stan’s cock into his mouth.

Stan’s vision whites out and he arches his hips forward, coming into Patrick’s mouth after just a few seconds. All he can feel for a good thirty seconds are Patrick’s lips and tongue on his cock as he suckles on the head, until Stan is twitching with oversensitivity. 

“Stop, _Patrick,_ it’s too much.” Stan sobs. His cheeks burn with identical spots of colour and he suddenly feels unbearably self conscious. What if Patrick thinks he’s weird down there? He wonders if Patrick is circumcised, or if he’s done this with other people who are. 

He wonders if Patrick has done this with other people, period. Is it worse if Stan is his first, or if he’s just another notch on a very long bedpost? He can’t decide.

Patrick pulls off eventually, licking his lips and standing with a self satisfied smile. He leaves Stan to tuck himself back into his shorts, even though he’s probably sweaty and obviously post-orgasm if anyone were to look at him. He feels awkward, like he has no idea what to say after something like that.

“Happy birthday, Stan.” Patrick says quietly. Stan can’t think of anything to say in reply, so he stays silent as Patrick turns away and cuts a path between the trees until he disappears from view entirely. He feels strange now, older, more mature, like something profound has just happened. 

He wonders if he’ll ever see Patrick again, like that. He thinks about what Patrick had said just before he left, and how, to Stan, he had sounded almost sincere.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! <3
> 
> (Also, apparently it’s illegal to have a bluejay feather?? Who knew??)


End file.
